


Interlude

by Katzedecimal



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor... What, son? [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is breaking.  Sherlock is at a loss for how to hold him together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> So I miiiiiight have gotten obsessed with the visuals inspired by _The Adventure of the Illustrious Client_ and gone websurfing and found stuff annnnnd then this happened.

The wind howled like an animal in pain. Baker Street was nearly empty as people sought shelter from the gale. One lone, bedraggled figure staggered determinedly against the wind, crouching to lower his centre of gravity, only to stumble forward when the wind let up for a moment. Sherlock watched him from the window, musing as he played his violin. 

Struggling against the storm - such a perfect visual metaphor for John's life right now. How he struggled to carry on, despite losing his best friend, then his wife and unborn daughter, despite assassination attempts real and threatened, still he fought to keep going. Despite feeling used and abused. Despite wanting to just be quit of it all. Despite the pain in his shoulder. 

_"Do I mean anything to you at all?"_

The question had hurt far worse than Sherlock could have anticipated. _How could you even ask?_ He thought about how he'd cried on the rooftop, wishing he didn't have to do this to John. He thought about all the times he'd wished John could have been with him on his assignments. He thought of all the times he'd wept silently in the night, the first time he'd been forced to kill a man, wishing desperately that he could talk to John, even just to text him. He thought of all the cells he'd lain in, all the chains he'd sagged in, knowing John would not be coming to his rescue. He thought of all the times he'd asked for stupid things or hurt himself deliberately, having picked up on John's need to feel useful. He thought of all the times he'd done something ridiculous, to make John smile. 

_"Do I mean anything to you at all?"_

The question had stabbed him to the heart. _How can you even ask?_ John didn't see, didn't observe, he didn't know and Sherlock was at a loss. John, with his sapphire eyes and his hair of gold and silver and his dazzling smile -- John was a precious jewel in Sherlock's heart and he didn't know how to make John see.

John's shoulder was definitely paining him, Sherlock observed. He wondered if he should offer to massage it for him. John was stoic but he was also hurting. 

He put down the violin and went down the seventeen steps to open the door. The gale ripped it from his grasp, scraping his palm and flinging the door open with a bang. John hurried in and Sherlock leaned his weight against the door. The wind screamed as he forced it closed then dropped to a moan as he snapped the lock. He bent to pick up the Tesco bag from John, momentarily distracted by a soggy leaflet blown in on the wind. _Oh! Oh yes!_

Sherlock barely heard John's ritual litany of complaints as he sprang up the stairs two at a time and thrust the Tesco bag onto the counter before reaching for his phone. John griped as he put the shopping away, grumbling that while it was nice for Sherlock to have taken the bag upstairs, would it have killed him to see it through? But Sherlock ignored him, so he went upstairs to strip off his sodden clothes. Sherlock bounded up after him, bursting through John's bedroom door with a pack in hand, and started rifling through John's clothes. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell?"

"No time to explain, John, our cab will be here any minute."

"What?" John gaped at him as he stuffed some of John's clothes into the pack, then groaned, "Oh, no, _Sherlock!_ Not a bloody case already? I just bloody well got home! Can you not even let me get out of these clothes and have some tea?"

"You can do both when we get there, now come on!" John groaned heavily but followed. He scowled the entire cab ride, which was much shorter than he had anticipated. Before long, they were pulling up beside, "Huh? Ironmonger Row Baths?"

"For your shoulder, John," Sherlock said, "Anyone can see it's hurting you. The cold and stress have aggravated your wound. They have a men's bath from six until nine. I had just enough time to book us in." He paid the cabbie as John stared at him. 

They went inside. Sherlock watched John glance around at the glitzy spa and immediately grow uncomfortable. _Probably thinks it's 'gay',_ he sighed to himself. John had funny ideas about what constituted acceptably masculine grooming habits and what was outside of his comfort zone and therefore 'gay.' Or 'metrosexual', as Sherlock had once overheard John describe him. But he could also be counted on to humour Sherlock, especially if it was for his shoulder.

They went to the locker room, where John could finally strip out of his soggy clothing, now understanding what Sherlock meant by that. Then they went to the hammam, the warming room to begin acclimating themselves to heat. After a soak in aromatic steam and a dip in the plunge pool, they sat in the caldarium and Sherlock noticed John's eyes flicking over Sherlock's scars. "That one wasn't sutured properly," he said, indicating a knife wound on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Got that in Mexico," Sherlock said.

John's eyes narrowed, "You went to Mexico?"

"Mm-hmm. Nasty cartel there. Even nastier case of Montezuma's Revenge," Sherlock made a face, "Found myself being very grateful for that hepatitis booster you forced on me." John chuckled dryly. Sherlock twisted and pointed at another scar, "This one I got in Bosnia. The medical personnel there was atrocious, you would have been appalled. That wasn't the only reason I missed you but it was high on the list." This time John's chuckle was warmer. 

They took another dip in the plunge pool then Sherlock announced it was time, but didn't say for what. So John was completely surprised when he was ushered onto a padded table for a massage. Sherlock watched him, noticing how he seemed apprehensive at first then quickly squared it once it was established that it was a deep-tissue massage to free up his shoulder. It was curious how John was at ease with strangers touching his flesh but uncomfortable if it was Sherlock. Sherlock was completely the opposite, uncomfortable if anyone other than John touched him. He knew he had to bear up, though, putting himself through the unease of a light Swedish massage so that John wouldn't feel alone. They shared a secret grin when the therapists paused, momentarily flustered by their clients' lurid scars. 

The sensation of unknown hands, ignorant of where he was sensitive, was unsettling, making Sherlock tense. He distracted himself by watching John. The therapist dug his thumbs in and John's groans and grimaces of pain made Sherlock wonder if this was a bad idea after all. But then John was sitting up, flexing his shoulder which was visibly more mobile now, and smiling his relief. 

They returned to the caldarium then moved to the laconium, the hottest room. John felt the heat penetrate his shoulder, relieving the pain of massage, and sighed, "This heat reminds me of summer in Kandahar." Sherlock nodded agreement and John frowned, "What? Were you in Afghanistan?"

"Briefly," Sherlock admitted, "The first September after I left. It was a terrible mission, it did not go well at all." A shadow flickering across Sherlock's face made John wince. "I met some people there, British soldiers. I asked if any of them knew you. Nobody did." 

"Not surprising," John chuckled. 

"They knew _of_ you. Several of them wore your handiwork. Your suturing leaves quite distinctive scars. They didn't know your name but they knew you were the man to hope for if they were injured."

John didn't know what to say to that so he said nothing. After another dip in the plunge pool, they went to rinse off in the showers then went to the drying lounge.

"You were never far from my mind," Sherlock said softly, "I continued to talk to you, even though you weren't there." He chuckled, "There were times I thought I had dreamed you."

John looked away. He knew what times would make a man believe his prior life had been a dream. "Was that one of those times? Your back?"

Sherlock shrugged, "That was Serbia. I broke into an installation there and was caught. My fault."

"How did you get out?"

"Mycroft came and got me." John's eyes widened then narrowed. "He was talking about this underground network and all I could think was, 'Oh, I get to go home!'" Sherlock chuckled at the memory, "Didn't really care about the network yet, I just wanted to see you again." 

John looked away. "How long?" he said softly. He turned back slightly but didn't look at Sherlock, "How long between then and... when you showed up at the restaurant?"

Sherlock looked puzzled for a moment before alarm bells screamed in his head, warning him of bliss-crushing doom ahead. "Hardly relevant, John." Too late. John looked away again, guilt flashing across his face. "John..."

John shook his head. "It's.. fine, Sherlock, it's... Let's just go home, alright?" He drained his water glass then stood up. He was silent the whole way back to Baker Street. 

Sherlock was at a loss for what to do. This was intended to make John feel a little better but it seemed the whole thing had backfired. "John," he tried a slight smile, hoping for levity, "I fully expected you to hit me."

Wrong thing. John just winced again and rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, but I didn't stop at one, did I?" he sighed. Shame was written over his face. He didn't look at Sherlock but crossed over to the stereo and turned it on. A soft waltz filled the room. He turned and extended his hand to Sherlock, finally looking at him. 

Sherlock took it, uncertain what John wanted at first. It quickly became apparent when John looped his other arm around Sherlock's waist. "John?"

"I'll try to make it up to you," John said softly. 

"John..."

"I was so hurt by what you'd done," John shook his head, "I wanted to make you hurt as much as I was. It never occurred to me that you already were."

"John..." 

"Not even once."

"John..." John finally looked up and Sherlock smiled at him, "You're completely off the beat, John."

John stared at him for a second before breaking into giggles. "Alright, fine, then you lead." He let Sherlock take over then drew him a little closer. "Thanks for this," he said softly, "All of it. We can do that again any time."

"Whenever you like," Sherlock smiled, cautiously drawing John closer still until he could rest his cheek on John's hair. He felt John relax into him and tighten his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock smiled, finally starting to feel like something had gone just a tiny bit right, for a change.


End file.
